If you’ve ever spent two days crammed into a station wagon with siblings, you know what real endurance is. Not the kind of endurance you see in marathon runners or survival shows—no, I’m talking about the special kind of grit it takes to survive the energy of two younger siblings who could give caffeinated squirrels a run for their money. Their volume control? Broken. Permanently set on “shatter glass.”

Every year, we loaded up the old wagon or mini-van and set out on what felt like a quest straight out of The Odyssey: Vermont to North Carolina, all to get to Mama and Papa’s house for Christmas.

By hour two, someone was whining about needing to pee. By hour six, I was cursing my past self for not packing extra batteries for my CD player. Somewhere around hour twelve, the idea of Mama’s warm smile and Papa’s quiet, steady humor became the only thing keeping me from staging a full-blown mutiny.

But then, oh, then—we’d pull into the driveway, and all the misery of the journey melted away like snowflakes on a warm roof.

The car would barely roll to a stop before we exploded out of it like clowns from a tiny circus car. Mama would already be on the porch, her arms wide open, a grin stretching from ear to ear. She greeted us like we were heads of state, not bedraggled kids and road-weary parents who’d been living on peanut butter and potted meat sandwiches for 48 hours.

“Y’all must be starving,” she’d say, as if it were even possible to be underfed in Mama’s orbit.

Waiting for us was always a cold glass of Cheerwine—carbonated nectar of the gods—and a plate of something that tasted like heaven. Cornbread? Pie? Leftover ham biscuits? Didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it had the flavor of home.

Stepping into Mama’s kitchen felt like stepping into a different world. The red-checkered tablecloth practically dared you to sit down and stay a while. Something magical was always bubbling away on the stove, and somewhere nearby was a Whitman’s Christmas Sampler with its treasures just begging to be unwrapped.

Compared to two days of gas station snacks and sandwiches that tasted faintly of desperation, Mama’s kitchen was a sanctuary. A warm, fragrant oasis where love was served in heaping portions and seconds were non-negotiable.

While Mama played the role of festive commander-in-chief, Papa was the quiet backbone of it all. He’d wave us over from his chair by the fireplace, his trusty scally cap perched on his head, wearing a flannel shirt that smelled faintly of Lucky strikes unfiltered or pipe tabacco.

“Y’all made it,” he’d say, half a grin on his face, like he’d been keeping watch the whole time.

And then, without fail, came the ritual: Papa would slip each of us a couple of dollars. Maybe one or two, but to us, it might as well have been a king’s ransom. He’d do it on the sly, with a wink and a whispered, “Don’t tell your mama,” making us feel like we were in on the world’s best secret.

Inside, the house was a masterpiece of holiday cheer. The Christmas tree stood proudly in the living room, decked out in family ornaments so old they practically told our history. Stockings hung on the mantel, promising mysteries we couldn’t wait to unravel.

But more than the decorations, it was the feeling that made it magical. That house radiated warmth, love, and the kind of hospitality that wrapped you up like a favorite blanket. Mama and Papa didn’t just open their doors; they opened their hearts, and it was impossible not to feel it.

Looking back, that annual trek feels less like a road trip and more like a life lesson wrapped in a couple of long, noisy days. Sure, the ride was uncomfortable, but it made the destination sweeter.

Mama and Papa’s house wasn’t just a house—it was a promise. A promise of joy, abundance, and belonging. Every sip of Cheerwine, every dollar tucked into our palms, every warm bite from Mama’s kitchen was a reminder of how deeply we were loved.

Now, as an adult, I do my best to pass that on. Whether it’s welcoming friends with a cold drink or slipping a niece or nephew a couple of bucks or a sweet treat just because, I’m carrying a little bit of Mama and Papa’s magic forward.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: no matter how long or hard the journey, a warm smile, a full plate, and a generous heart can make any place feel like Christmas..

Picture this: much like us on the road to NC. the Israelites trudging through the wilderness, hot, tired, and cranky. Their pit stop at Marah was a bitter disappointment—literally. The water there was so bad it probably could’ve doubled as paint stripper. Just when their patience was on life support, they stumbled upon Elim: an oasis with twelve fresh springs and seventy palm trees. It wasn’t just a lucky break; it was God showing off His hospitality in style.

This journey from Marah to Elim isn’t just a wilderness travelogue. It’s a snapshot of how God turns hardship into hope and scarcity into abundance. And the story doesn’t end there. It’s echoed in two of the most beloved holidays—Christmas and Hanukkah—reminders that light, joy, and provision often emerge from the most unexpected places.

The contrast between Marah and Elim is like night and day. At Marah, there was bitterness; at Elim, abundance flowed freely. This same arc plays out in the story of Christmas and Hanukkah.

Think about Christmas: it begins in the humble setting of a stable in Bethlehem. Not exactly a glamorous launch pad for the Savior of the world. Yet, from this modest beginning blooms the joyous proclamation of salvation. Similarly, Hanukkah starts with a crisis—not enough oil to keep the temple’s menorah burning. But instead of despair, there’s a miracle: the oil lasts for eight days, becoming a symbol of enduring hope and divine provision.

At its heart, Elim’s abundance—twelve springs and seventy palm trees—mirrors the spiritual and physical nourishment God provides. In Christmas, this is reflected in the birth of Christ, the “Living Water” who quenches our spiritual thirst. In Hanukkah, it’s the menorah’s flame, a glowing reminder that God’s provision is both timely and sufficient.

Here’s the thing: the shift from Marah to Elim isn’t just about survival; it’s about transformation. God’s hospitality is on full display. He doesn’t just meet needs; He exceeds them. This theme is woven into the fabric of Christmas and Hanukkah.

At Christmas, the birth of Jesus isn’t just a “happy birthday” moment; it’s God stepping into our messy, weary world to bring light and life. The stable may not have been fancy, but it became a sanctuary—a place where the divine met the everyday. Similarly, Hanukkah’s enduring flame reminds us that God’s light can transform even the darkest situations.

Hospitality, then, isn’t just about setting the table; it’s about creating spaces where bitterness turns sweet, and hope takes root. It’s about reflecting God’s generosity in our own lives.

At Elim, God showed up with springs and palm trees, a kind of heavenly pit stop to refresh and rejuvenate His people. It’s a foreshadowing of the abundance He would later provide through Christ.

Bethlehem—“House of Bread”—isn’t just a quaint name. It’s deeply symbolic. Jesus, the “Bread of Life,” was born there, offering spiritual nourishment that sustains us far beyond physical hunger. Similarly, Hanukkah’s miracle of oil speaks to God’s ability to multiply what we have, no matter how meager it seems.

But here’s the kicker: God’s provision isn’t about what we deserve. (Spoiler alert: the Israelites weren’t exactly on their best behavior in the wilderness.) It’s about His boundless love and generosity. Christmas and Hanukkah remind us to mirror this grace by extending hospitality and generosity to others.

One of the most humbling lessons from the wilderness is the daily dependence on God—gathering manna every morning, trusting it would be there again tomorrow. Christmas and Hanukkah echo this theme of reliance.

Christmas and Humility: Jesus’ birth in a stable wasn’t Plan B. It was a divine declaration that true riches aren’t found in material wealth but in faith and reliance on God’s provision. Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem is a testament to trusting God, even when the road ahead seems uncertain.

Hanukkah’s Light: The menorah’s enduring flame is a gentle reminder to trust God’s faithfulness, even when resources seem laughably insufficient. It’s a story of small beginnings becoming mighty through divine power—whether it’s a tiny jar of oil or a baby born in a manger.

God’s hospitality at Elim wasn’t just a one-time event; it was a blueprint for how we’re called to live. Creating spaces of care, generosity, and refreshment isn’t just nice—it’s necessary.

Effort and Intention: True hospitality takes work. Just as the Israelites gathered manna daily, we’re called to intentionally cultivate environments where others feel welcome and cared for. Whether it’s hosting a meal or offering a listening ear, these acts reflect divine generosity.

Spreading Joy and Light: Christmas reminds us to share joy through gifts, meals, and acts of kindness. Hanukkah’s menorah teaches us to amplify light in dark times. Both holidays challenge us to spread love in ways that go beyond material offerings.

Hospitality shines brightest when it’s shared. Whether it’s the Israelites gathering manna, families lighting menorahs, or Christmas dinners around a crowded table, the real magic happens in community.

Shared Stories: Christmas invites us to reflect on the birth of Jesus, connecting past, present, and future in a single story. Hanukkah celebrates the rededication of the temple, reinforcing a shared identity rooted in faith. These moments of storytelling become threads that weave us closer together.

Nourishing Body and Soul: From Passover’s unleavened bread to Hanukkah’s fried treats to Christmas feasts, food has always been a way to connect the sacred with the everyday. Sharing meals isn’t just about calories; it’s about creating sacred spaces of connection and reflection.

Elim’s springs and palm trees aren’t just ancient landmarks; they’re an invitation. As we move through this holiday season, let’s channel that same spirit of abundance and hospitality. Here’s how:

Overflow with Generosity: Don’t just meet the bare minimum. Whether it’s hosting a Christmas meal or lighting the menorah, let your actions reflect God’s overwhelming love.

Be a Safe Haven: Like Elim’s springs, create spaces of refreshment and safety where people feel valued and supported.

Celebrate Traditions Together: Share stories of Christ’s birth, the miracle of Hanukkah, or even the small victories of your year. These shared moments build bonds that last.

Shine Brightly: Let your actions this season reflect the hope and joy found in God’s provision and love. Be a light in someone’s darkness.

Whether it’s manna in the desert, oil in the temple, or a Savior born in Bethlehem, God’s hospitality is always abundant, transformative, and deeply personal. This season, as you gather with loved ones, light candles, and share meals, remember the deeper story that invites us to open our hearts and homes.

Be like Elim: a place where joy flows freely, hope flourishes, and God’s presence is unmistakable. Let your hospitality this season be a reflection of the One who turns bitterness into sweetness and scarcity into abundance.